


Monday

by orphan_account



Series: 7 Days in a Week [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:07:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mondays always start the week for Russia and England. They don't claim to like or hate it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monday

People said that Sundays started the week, being the first day of the week; others said it was Thursdays, being paydays for humans; others still said that it was Mondays, being the first work day of the week for the religious and even for the non-religious. England and Russia both believed Monday to be the start of the week for two very different reasons, neither of them being about work. Monday was the day that Russia's anger was highest, that England's new found depression as at its peak and the day they worked together to rid of both these unnecessary emotions. They needed the distraction badly and neither really minded this routine.

Between America dropping hints, and France's constant flirting, England had been between two countries playing with his feelings. Quite honestly, he despised them both but at the same time, loved them to an extent. He'd known France since he was a child with envious dreams of that lush hair and looking up to the older country. He still was forced to look up to the older country, just barely, damn his height. The same was with America--he'd known America since before he was in his colonial age. He was just a tiny little thing with great strength and ambitions, who'd chosen him of all the other countries who'd sought after him to be a part of. They'd been through happy and sad times, to put it bluntly, and that made their connection grow stronger, especially now that they could freely speak again. The two countries now sought after the Briton and recently pushed him off the edge of his emotional teeter-totter. All the flirting, all the teasing, all the quick kisses and molestations to "help him make a decision" were all found out to be nothing but fake. They were jealous of the other, wanted the other country, not him. Francis wanted Alfred; Alfred wanted Francis. They'd left him in the dust, as part of the dust, crushed in thinking that anyone could ever actually like him. Why would they? He couldn't cook, he drunk, he swore, he fought and started too many battles.

That had happened on a Sunday. The depression had really hit, the situation really sunk in, the Monday after. He retreated out of their territories, sought for his freedom like America had so many years ago. However, this was a freedom from his mind and thoughts.

Russia had no reason to be angry, not to the intensity that he was on Monday mornings. It was only on Mondays that he would wake up without that tiny smile and gentle expression, a black aura around his body. Latvia made absolutely positive to stay away from him, lest he be beat in some shape or form of the word. If Russia made it through the day without being bothered, spoken to, or generally annoyed, the anger would pass once he went to sleep again that night. No world meetings were held on Mondays to avoid any country being potentially maimed or having a war started between them and one of the larger countries. Russia never meant to actually start taking his anger out on England. He'd wandered into his home on the wrong day, at the wrong time and their weekly fling began. They needed it nowadays--Russia needed it to rid of his anger quicker and easier; England needed a distraction from the thumping pain his heart made with each beat from his toyed with emotions.

Mondays always hurt the worst for the two countries but it was England especially who hurt.

The blonde would sometimes be asleep, since he'd just gone to bed, or sometimes he got up earlier than Russia in the morning and avoided him like the plague until it inevitably happened inside of the home he now stayed at like a captive. He'd feel the throb of his shoulders as he was pressed against a wall in the large house, or the snap of his head as it was shoved roughly against the bed, providing he was lying on his side or he'd been flipped over from his stomach. His lips would ache as they were harshly pressed against with firm kisses, nimble fingers already undoing the belt of his pants and shucking them away, quicker when he had already taken the belt off by the evening time. He never got physical preparations for Mondays, but the time between his pants being tossed and Russia's being tossed gave him mental time to relax his muscles as best he could to avoid too much pain and ripping. The Russian was no small man and he never once stopped once he had violated the Briton.

The first few times, the pain had been unbearable--even now; it wasn't the most pleasant experience in the world. It left him throbbing and sore, bloodied and sometimes torn, healing faster only because he was a country and had sustained worse wounds than that. During, once the first few thrusts were gone and the initial pain dulled enough to be tolerable, and the screams and cries and clawing had turned into whimpers, whines, halfhearted scratches, he started to care less about the rough treatment his rear was getting. In the end, it helped them both.

The Russian never left his "lover" alone after the treatment. He preferred if this would happen earlier in the morning but it didn't benefit the blonde if he did. If he let him run, it kept his fear at the front of his mind instead of his depression. He'd said so himself, and so he stayed with the trembling body. Russia knew that England didn't like the treatment but it was the way he repaid him--let all the anger out by lashing out on his body. In the end, Russia would be smiling gently again, tugging the smaller country into his arms and whispering small foreign words into his ear to soothe him. He'd clean the Briton up; sometimes apologize for being so rough with his "delicate" body when it was particularly bad damage. They used their human names in this calmer time, when they were alone. If they were in the house, Russia would redress them and carry England to his room after the usual clean up. He'd fall asleep on that bed with his abused lover.

England didn't mind.

Mondays always hurt the worst.

The week only got better from there.

_**Fin~** _


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